


New Life, Old Wounds

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, F/M, Fatherhood, Loving Marriage, Morning Sickness, Nightmares, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: When Mercedes announces her pregnancy, Sylvain must face his mounting unease regarding fatherhood.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	New Life, Old Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> This is the full version of my piece for Sincerity: A Sylvain Gautier Zine. There were so many amazing contributions to that zine -- some of which you can find at their twitter [here](https://twitter.com/sylvainzine)!

Mercedes’s hand brushes his shoulder as she passes by. Sylvain looks up from the table, still a little groggy from the lack of sleep. It’s early morning, but he still meets his wife’s smile with one of his own.

There’s something hesitant in hers, though, and something in the way she looks away as quickly as their eyes meet sets Sylvain on edge. 

She sets a cup of tea before him, her eyes downcast. Something is wrong. Sylvain reaches for her as she retreats to fetch her own tea, and though he catches her wrist, she pulls it out of his grip gently as she goes. 

“Mercedes?” Concern colours his tone. Mercedes’s shoulders tense; her head drops as she turns her back to him. “What’s wrong?” 

But when she turns back, little porcelain cup in her hands, there’s a tiny smile on her lips and a light flush to her cheeks, every bit the demure church girl she had first seemed to be (and oh, had she proven _that_ impression wrong). 

“Sylvain,” she starts, and her voice is soft, delicate. Like it had been when she’d first confessed her love. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 

She sits next to him, setting her teacup aside. The scent of ginger rises from it, as well as Sylvain’s own. A blend neither of them favour, but he doesn’t have the mind to dwell on it, not when Mercedes takes his hand in both of hers and strokes her thumbs along the back of it. 

He feels his stomach sink. “Mercedes–”

But she cuts him off with a small laugh. “Look at you, so worried about me. It’s sweet.” 

It would be sweeter, he’s sure, if he knew _why_ he was worrying. He tries again: “What…” 

“It’s okay,” she interrupts. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just…” Her shoulders tremble, and when Sylvain looks at her face, it looks as if she’s fighting, hard, not to smile. It sets his nerves alight in every direction: should he fret? Should he be smiling, too? She’s clearly concerned, but she’s happy, too, and—

He comes to the realization at the same moment she says it aloud: “I’m pregnant.” 

And he squeezes her hand, draws it close to him without thinking. Sylvain can feel in his face how surprised he is, in the widening of his eyes and in how high his eyebrows must have flown above them. “You’re—” 

“Pregnant, yes!” Mercedes’s voice breaks on a laugh. He can see tears form in the corners of her eyes, and he’s not sure if they’re from joy or relief or something else entirely, but Sylvain can feel a burning in his own eyes that means he’s not far behind. 

He leaps from his chair, gathers his wife in his arms, and buries his face in her hair, kissing the top of her head over and over and over again, until he can finally find his voice. 

“I love you, Mercedes,” he says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

And she wraps her arms around him, pulling him close. “I love you, too.” 

* * *

It doesn’t really hit him until later that night, when they settle into bed together, and he pulls her to him, her back against his chest. He kisses her neck, slides his hands over her gown, traces the outline of her ribs and moves his hand down to her stomach—

“I’m going to be a father.” 

Mercedes turns in Sylvain’s grip, a hand coming to cup his cheek as she smiles at him, her periwinkle eyes twinkling. “Yes,” she says. And he leans forward at the same time she does, their lips meeting in a soft, gentle kiss. 

She falls asleep in his arms a half-hour later, despite Sylvain’s attempts to keep her up. He buries his nose in her hair and breathes in her scent, hoping that the steady thump of her heartbeat will calm the rapid pounding of his own. 

* * *

Sylvain is happy. 

Happy enough to wake early and rise from bed long before his wife. He decides to cook her breakfast. It’s not the first time he has, and it will not be the last, but this morning his mind is restless and his hands crave busywork. Sylvain is not a great cook, but he’s decent enough after having taken lessons from Dedue, and Mercedes will appreciate the gesture, if nothing else. After all, it’s the thought that counts. 

Isn’t it?

She joins him just before he finishes cooking, creeping up behind him and wrapping her arms around his middle. Her hands come up to his chest to squeeze him, and he smiles to himself, knowing exactly where she had picked up that particular gesture of affection.

“You’re up early,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

“You know how I get,” he says instead of answering the question. He’s fairly certain that his eyes give the real answer away, anyway. “Besides, you looked like you were having a good dream. If I’d stayed any longer, I might have had to wake you up.”

“I was having a good dream. You were in it.” 

Sylvain raises a brow. He turns in her arms. “Oh?” His smile could cut glass, he’s sure, if the way Mercedes reddens is any indication. “Then maybe I _should’ve_ woken you up.” 

“It wasn’t like that.” She giggles and playfully swats at Sylvain’s chest, her fingertips brushing the loose fabric of his shirt until he catches her hand in his. He lifts it to his lips to kiss her palm, and she shivers pleasantly in his hold. 

“Like what, then?” Sylvain asks against her hand, sure to keep his voice low. 

“Oh, stop." She smiles despite the chiding tone; Sylvain feels the sudden urge to sweep her off her feet and kiss her, the same way he had on their wedding night years ago. Mercedes has never been one to indulge his advances, but she never quite stops him, either. Though she'd never admit it, Sylvain is certain she enjoys his flirting just as much as he does. 

"Fine, fine." He relents, pulling himself away from her so he can guide her to the table. The kitchen is cozy, far unlike the dining hall they usually take their breakfast in, but right now, Sylvain can't stand the thought being in such a vast, empty room. "What did you dream about, then?" 

"The two of us," Mercedes says. She smiles as Sylvain sets down her breakfast. "And our children."

The urge to kiss her doesn't go away, but suddenly, Sylvain isn't sure he wants to eat. Still, he sits across the small table from his wife, picks up the cutlery he'd laid out, and flashes her a smile as brilliant as the silverware, and just as finely-polished. "Children? Mercedes, we still haven't had the one yet. I hope you're not getting ahead of yourself." 

"Mm." She dabs at her mouth with a handkerchief as she swallows her first few bites, and her gentle smile grows. "I would have thought you'd be excited to hear we'd had more, seeing how you were trying to, ah… make more last night."

Sylvain drops his fork halfway to his mouth, and Mercedes laughs, bright and loud and unrestrained. Sylvain can't help but laugh with her, even as he cleans up his dropped food. 

"You were happy in my dream, too," she says, once they've both finally calmed down. "We all were."

Happy. Yes, Sylvain is happy. 

* * *

Days turn into weeks turn into months, and every day, Mercedes is showing more and more. 

It doesn't really feel real to Sylvain until he first sees a marked difference in his wife's figure. The change had been gradual, enough that he hadn't noticed it happening until it already had. 

He watches Mercedes dress herself one morning, stripping out of her nightgown and into day clothes. Sylvain watches as the material slides over her skin, revealing her belly more slowly than normal, and it hits him all over again – for real this time.

She's pregnant. 

He gets out of bed and slowly walks over to her. He drops to his knees, reaches for her stomach, lifts the dress she had just put on. He touches her reverently, with just his fingertips, and thinks, _Oh. This is my child._

Mercedes helps him stand, taking his hand in hers. And he stares at her, wide-eyed and wondrous, as she caresses his cheek with the back of her hand. 

* * *

"We should probably come up with names."

“Hm?” Sylvain looks up from his book, up to Mercedes on the opposite end of the couch. She’s got a needle held delicately between her fingers, and it sinks into the side of her favourite skirt as she lets it out. 

"Names," she repeats, no trace of irritation in her tone. "For the baby."

"Right." He closes the book, sets it aside, and sits up, back straight. Where do they even start with something like that? 

"If it helps," Mercedes says, laying her needlework on her lap as she reaches for Sylvain's hand. "We're having a girl."

"We – really?" Sylvain's brows shoot right up. He feels something thump in his chest, and it's not unpleasant. It's very pleasant, actually, and he belatedly tags the sudden emotion as _elation_. "How can you tell?" 

"Mother says that when she was pregnant with me, she would get cramps in her sides and her back would ache, right here." She turns enough that Sylvain can see where her fingertips brush, and with his free hand he reaches for the spot, pressing his palm to it. 

"Here?"

"Yes." 

He shifts, turning to face her more properly. "Does it hurt now? Here, let me rub it for you, I can—" 

"I'm fine, Sylvain." She smiles, giggling behind her hand. "It doesn't hurt right now. But Mother said that the aches she got with Emile were much lower, and swears that the aches mean something. Mid-back for a girl, lower back for a boy. Her friends seemed to agree when she asked them about their own experiences, too."

"Huh." He makes a note to ask his mother later if that had been the case when she was pregnant with him, but quickly reins in his wandering thoughts and forces himself back to the topic at hand. "So – girl names. Good place to start. But, uh, maybe we should come up with names for a boy, too? I mean – I believe you, of course. But just in case."

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to take his hasty insistence as anything other than the reassurance he intends it to be. “I agree,” Mercedes says, and her gaze turns upward, toward the portrait hanging above the fireplace. A man on horseback – one of Sylvain's great- or great-great grandfathers, presumably, given the Crest of Gautier painted on the clasp of his cape. Sylvain follows her gaze to it, ignoring the Crest and instead focusing on the details painted onto his black armor. 

"You know," Mercedes starts, voice airy. She's hundreds of miles away, lost in her own thoughts. Sylvain isn't even sure she knows she's spoken aloud. "I never really got to say goodbye."

Sylvain's hand presses against her back. He takes her hand; she leans against him. "I thought it might be nice if we…"

He squeezes her hand. "Yeah," he says. "I think it'd be nice, too. And I've always liked the name Emile, anyway."

Mercedes smiles, but there's something sad in it. She doesn't look him in the eye. "Oh, but I'm being selfish. I'm not the only one who's…" 

Before she can say anything else, Sylvain takes his hand off her back and lays it over her mouth. "Mercedes."

Finally, she looks at him, eyes wide and bewildered, more from the sudden movement than his tone. She blinks – permission to continue. "I love you, but if you finish that thought, we may need to get divorced."

He pulls his hand away. She still stares at him with that same look in her eye. "... Oh. Sylvain, I'm sorry, that was…"

"It's okay," he says, smiling hollowly at Mercedes as she squeezes his hand. 

"No, it's not. I was being careless."

Sylvain shrugs, nonplussed. "You've got more important things to worry about than how I feel about a brother who's been dead for eight years. Like the little girl inside you that's waiting for us to pick out a name." He lets go of her hand to walk his fingers up over her belly, and Mercedes giggles as he goes. 

"So Emile is okay for a boy?" 

"A girl, too," Sylvain says. "Emilia?" 

The slight pink of her cheeks is more telling of her happiness than even her smile, and when he sees it, Sylvain can't help but lean forward to kiss her cheeks, each one twice in turn. "But what about you, Sylvain? I know you must have names you're fond of, as well." 

He laughs and moves to kiss her forehead instead, and Mercedes ducks to bury her nose in the fabric at his collarbone. "Sure," he says. "But we've got time. Right now, I'm far more concerned about these aches and pains you've been having."

He pulls back and turns Mercedes around, gently coaxing her to bend over and rest her elbows on the couch's arm. He runs a hand up her back, stopping at her neck, and smiles at the long, drawn out sigh he earns when he kneads it. "Tell me where it hurts, beautiful. I'll make you feel good." 

* * *

Part of the Margrave's duties involve regular trips to the border. Sylvain doesn't mind them, normally: the chill of the northern air on his face and the crisp, mountain air are a welcome reprieve from the halls of Castle Gautier. He feels free here, in a way he both loves and hates. Love for the open space, the lack of noise but for the wind and his horse’s hooves against the cold, hard-packed ground; hatred for the purpose, for the idea that bloodshed may only be a few days' ride away.

This time, it's different. He's never had a pregnant wife waiting for him back home, and though he doubts the trip will end with a fight – it hasn't yet in his short reign as Margrave – there's still that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this time, something _might_ happen.

He thinks of Mercedes as he rides. Thinks of her running her hands over her baby bump, soothing the kicking child inside her. Sylvain remembers the first time he felt it, and the phantom sensation tingles on his palm. 

"She's strong," Mercedes had said, making a face at the second successive kick. At the time, Sylvain had beamed with pride, but now the memory fills him with dread.

 _She's strong. She's strong. She's strong._ A mantra in his head. _But is she Crest-strong—_

He digs his spurs into his horse, unfairly pushing her to full gallop. The frigid wind cutting into his face is the only thing that can adequately distract him from the bile that rises in his throat.

* * *

In the end, everything's fine. Nothing awaits him at the border but the designated point of contact. His grip on the Lance of Ruin is loose enough to show that he does not want to use it – that he doesn't think he has to. He'd be a fool to leave it behind, of course. The suspicious, scrutinizing gaze he gets from the Srengi clansman who meets him only reminds him of that.

But still, he hopes that one day he will not need it. That his _daughter_ will not need it.

* * *

But that hope can't quell his wandering thoughts, nor can it control his dreams.

He dreams of a girl with fiery red hair. In one hand she holds the reins of her steed, and in the other, a sickeningly familiar lance. She raises it, charging forward into the throngs of warriors and soldiers clashing at the border, and Sylvain notes, with horror, that the lance is still. Dull. No twitching spikes, no eerie glow.

He screams, but she can't hear him. Not when shadows and ichor erupt from the Crest Stone to engulf her, not when her arms erupt in black scales, and not when she turns her gaze skyward and screams.

_"Father—!"_

* * *

Sylvain wakes in a cold sweat. He thrashes in bed, seeking out Mercedes's hand, and remembers that he's still a day away from Castle Gautier, still a day away from his wife.

He sobs into the pillow and prays to the goddess that she not allow him to fall asleep again.

* * *

When he returns home, Mercedes is waiting for him. Sylvain rushes to her, pulls her into his arms, and kisses her everywhere he can reach.

"Did something happen?" Mercedes asks, holding his face in both hands while his own wander to her bump. He feels their child kick, and while a wave of pride and fascination washes through him, it is tempered by hot, throat-tightening anxiety.

She's bigger. He's running out of time.

"Everything was fine," he says. Not a lie, not really. The border situation _had_ been fine. "Don't you worry your pretty little head."

* * *

Sylvain drinks.

He doesn't mean to. Doesn't even want to, really, but the decanter is right there, and he can't stop thinking about his dream. Every line of text he reads regarding the history between Sreng and Gautier reminds him of what he needs to do, how desperate he is to make sure what he'd dreamt never comes to pass. He doesn't even know how to _start_ proposing a peace treaty, and every time he closes his eyes to try and conjure the words, there she is, the girl with red hair, screaming as she's swallowed by shadows and darkness and thick, black ink.

He hardly even realizes he's drunk until he drains the last drop of liquor from his glass. He goes to pour another, and when he finds the decanter empty, he knocks it over and stumbles off to bed.

Mercedes is already asleep when he arrives, but she wakes quickly when he trips over his own feet, hits his head on the bedpost, and swears a blue streak.

She sits up, reaches for him, and slowly guides him into bed.

"I love you," he says, looking hazily up into her eyes as she strokes his hair behind his ear. She smiles down at him, but it's hard to see in the dark, and it doesn't help that she won't stop swaying. Spinning. She’s spinning.

"Shh. Go to sleep, Sylvain," Mercedes whispers back.

He closes his eyes. "Yeah. Sleep sounds... nice."

He's out in an instant.

* * *

He wakes up to the scent of bergamot. When he sits up, his stomach churns, his head thrums, and the room spins. The tea is still hot – Mercedes must have just left it.

He sips it, and the sickness in his stomach takes on a distinctly guilty feeling. He's supposed to be the one taking care of _her_ , not the other way around.

* * *

He gets his chance a few days later. Mercedes hasn’t had much in the way of morning sickness. It’s a surprise, then, when more than six months into her pregnancy, Sylvain wakes to her throwing herself out of bed and running out of the room.

He follows her, of course, and finds her kneeling over a bucket. Without thinking, Sylvain drops to his knees, too, and brushes her hair back out of her face. He holds it back as she heaves and rubs soothing circles on her back, just the speed and pressure she likes.

When she’s done, she laughs, the sound broken by a cough. “I guess we didn’t avoid it after all.”

Her voice is thick, ragged, and entirely unbecoming of her. Sylvain tries to swallow down the laughter bubbling in his throat, but he can’t, and it bursts out of him, wracking his entire body as he curls over on himself, hand still resting on Mercedes’ back.

He’s glad she can laugh with him about this, too.

When she feels well enough to stand, he leads her back to bed and sits by her side, holding her hand until she nods off.

* * *

When Mercedes wakes, Sylvain makes sure the first thing she sees is a plate of still-warm biscuits. He smiles and offers the plate to her, and she takes one from it with wide eyes.

"Go on," he tells her. "They're not pretty, but I promise they're still good."

Mercedes takes a tentative nibble, her eyes never leaving his. Not until her brows rise up past her bangs and she blinks. "They are! Sylvain, did you—"

"Sure did." He leans forward and kisses her forehead. "These are your favourite, right? I wasn't sure if I got the recipe quite right, but I remembered the way you showed me to cut the butter in, and figured I could probably throw something half-decent together. Only took four trial runs, too."

"Oh, Sylvain." Mercedes giggles behind her hand. But when it falls back to her lap, there's sadness in her eyes.

"Hey." Sylvain reaches for her chin and tilts it up so she can look him in the eye. "What's wrong?"

It takes a moment for her to respond, and she looks away, as if the loose thread on her nightgown's sleeve has the answer. But Sylvain is patient, knowing she just needs to find the words.

"The other night," she says, and Sylvain immediately knows what she means. He swallows, nervous, but doesn't interrupt. It's not like he can defend himself or deny what he'd done.

"You were thinking about Crests, weren't you?"

Sylvain laughs bitterly, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. "That obvious, huh?"

Mercedes shakes her head. "No," she says, and she sets her biscuit aside to take Sylvain's hands in hers. "I've... also been thinking about it."

He looks up. Mercedes gives him a watery smile, and she squeezes his hand. "I know you're scared," she sighs, voice tiny. "I'm scared, too. So much of our lives have been tainted by Crests. For so long, people thought we were only worth love for our bloodlines. But that's not true, is it?" She smiles. "I love you for _you_ , and you love me for me. And we'll both love our children exactly the same."

Mercedes cups his face with one hand. Sylvain leans into the touch. It's soothing, but his fears are not assuaged. She must see it in his eyes, because a second before he can say anything, Mercedes places a soft, gentle finger to his lips, and Sylvain quiets. "And as for Sreng... I know you'll find a way. You're a clever man, Sylvain Gautier. And if anyone can find a way to make sure Crests are no longer necessary, it's you."

* * *

They go to bed together that night, Sylvain's arms wrapped protectively around his wife. He rests one hand on her bump, and feels his daughter kick.

His stomach churns. But he vows, in that moment, that Crest or no, he will make sure she never needs one.

* * *

Eight months in, Mercedes wakes Sylvain with a hand in his hair, gently carding through it. He turns over to face her, unsure if he's dreaming or not, and smiles. "Something wrong, babe?"

"I like the name Joséphine," she says.

Sylvain blinks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mercedes takes his hand, and without thinking, he strokes over her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. "It’s elegant, but strong. Just like her father."

Sylvain laughs. "I don’t know about that," he says. But he smiles all the same, and he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off again. "But… okay. Okay."

Joséphine it is.

* * *

The day Mercedes gives birth, Sylvain asks her to go riding with him.

"You sure you don't want to ride with me?" he asks as he helps her onto her horse, smiling cheekily as she scoffs down at him.

"Sylvain, I've gotten so big I can hardly fit on the saddle myself!"

"Then I guess you'll just have to sit in my lap, won't you?"

He takes her hand and kisses it, rejoicing in the laughter the line earns – until it stops suddenly, and her face goes pale.

"Mercedes?" Sylvain looks up at her with wide eyes. She clenches his hand uncomfortably tight, nails digging into his skin. "Is everything–"

"Sylvain," Mercedes croaks. "She’s—"

Sylvain doesn't remember much after that. He remembers it in brief lucid flashes among a whirlwind of events: summoning a midwife; Mercedes being ushered away; a crushing grip on his hand; his wife's face, drawn and exhausted; the cry of an infant that Sylvain almost hadn't realized was his daughter until he held her in his arms.

* * *

“Sylvain?” 

Hours later, after the baby had been cleaned and wrapped in swaddling clothes and Mercedes had been given the chance to rest, Sylvain sits with them both. When Mercedes calls his name, he looks away from his daughter’s sleeping face to see her smile, beautiful and exhausted and so, so happy. 

He reaches for her. Mercedes sits up, scooches closer to him on the bed. Sylvain wraps one arm around her to rub slow, gentle circles on her back, while the other remains carefully wrapped around the tiny, swaddled body of Joséphine Emilia Gautier.

“Yes, Mercedes?” 

She leans her head on his shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay,” she whispers to him. “I promise.” 

Sylvain nods. As their daughter slumbers in his arms, he vows, once again, that he will do whatever it takes to make sure she grows up knowing she is loved for who she is – Crest or no.

“Yeah,” he says. “I promise, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> And if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥


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